


Lost and Not Found

by castielslovesong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark Dean Winchester, Dean Hates Himself, Dean really misses cas ok, Emotional Hurt, Hurt Castiel, Insecurities, M/M, Mark of Cain, Mental Breakdown, One Shot, a lot of self hate, and he misses sam, babydaddy, but mostly - Freeform, dean could do with a hug tbh, he wants his
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielslovesong/pseuds/castielslovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust the King of Hell to find a backdoor from Hell to us, forgoing Purgatory.</p><p>Sam's moved on, Cas is MIA.</p><p>Dean's going to do what he can to take out Abaddon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Not Found

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the start of Season 8, except Sam has closed the gates of Hell, the angels haven't fallen but Dean still has the mark, because Abaddon.
> 
> It's a pretty dark canon divergence and i should be updating my other three fics.... But here we are.
> 
> Enjoy?
> 
> Please feedback if you have time :3 
> 
> Thanks for reading...

Ticking away, the moments that makes up another meaningless day. He finds himself moping around in the next nameless town, waiting for Crowley or someone to show him the way. The mark is a solid pounding now, a metronome that ticks a beat faster than his heart. It’s consuming him slowly. Although the sun is the same, in a relative way, he can feel it building up inside him. Each day he takes another step closer to death.

He can’t remember the last time he slept. Even though each day he falls onto a twin sized mattress weary and tired; his eyes close and time phases out, but he can’t tell if he sleeps or if the mark is compensating by drumming in his veins a little louder. The bottle in his hand is empty. He doesn't remember drinking the brandy and nothing is strong enough to take the edge off anymore. It makes him feel worse with each bottle he downs.

With the gates of Hell closed, he finally decided he’d dragged his brother into enough shit. Sam found himself a girl; he set up shop, ready to wave goodbye hunting and, for the time being, his big brother. And he’s glad. Really, he is.

The precious poison drips through him now; he can feel the tainted blood sending shockwaves of thunder through his veins, earning elongated trembles to the tips of his fingers and the bottom of his toes. It’s wrong. He knows it. But he just... Can’t... Stop. As much as he tries to blame it on the scar that taunts his body with memories of blue eyes and strong hands, this feeling was there before. Long before. It circled his heart in Hell. Each flash of a blade, each scream of pain.

He’s a monster. And he’s tired of waiting.

There’s an empty void inside him. A hunger that’s been growing and gradually encompassing his blackened soul. He’s so lost now. Lost in that void, silently begging for the ground to give out beneath him, because he’s sure that he won’t be going up. Looking to the cracked ceiling, he screams at the image inside his head.

Mom’s looking down on him. Her hand outstretched as he lets himself be drawn further and further into the blackness. The beat is steadily drowning out the slowing pace of his heart. She cries out for her boys. Tears fall down her beautiful face...

“I’m so sorry Mom!” His voice is hoarse. It sounds so far away. The mark is pulsing within the blood in his ear drums, and he absently wipes his eyes with his hands. They come away wet, blood red. The instinct to recoil has gone astray; sick rises in his throat at what he’s become.

In a completely un-amusing way, he’s come full circle. It’s how he would have always ended up – proving once again, all that Cas has lost because of him was for nothing. That he is nothing. All these last few years have been, since his Dad made that deal even, his life on borrowed time. It was a waste. He’d fucked everything up worse than before.

For Sammy.

For Cas.

For the world.

Desperately, he tries Sam’s number. The condolences of a triple beep blare out of the speaker. In a pathetic last ditch attempt, he closes his eyes and prays to Cas. Maybe he’ll answer this time. Perhaps he should ask nicer.

_Hey Cas, I need you. I miss you. I’ve done something monumentally stupid and I’m... Scared. I’m so scared Cas that I’m going to f-fail again._

No one answers. Throbbing, the itch he can’t scratch and anger he can’t quench wells up inside of him. _It’s better this way_ , a voice that sounds disturbingly like Alastair says. _I’ll see you back in class soon_. The voice is right. That’s where he was always destined to end up.

Internally, he still winces at the thought of what his Dad would say. _Soldiers don’t give in boy_. They keep people safe, they fight the good fight. But he’s already let his Dad down. Many times... Not as many times as Cas, but hey, he stuck around for longer. Then of course, he drags everyone he meets through the dirt with him. Everyone is dead. Who, of any normal, decent human being, can say they have a list of people they got killed?

The inaction makes his blood curl. The mark is disappointed, where is the blade that goes with it? He’s an angel without his wings, a demon without his smoke, a boy without his Dad.

He didn’t want any part of God’s plan. Or the devils plan. Nor his fathers plan. It makes him sick. It makes him angry. The mark pulses again, _good_. You’re going to need that angry. All that pent up shit you’ve been burying since you were 4 years old? The time is coming. Abaddon is getting closer. The levee is going to break and it’s going to break him with it.

The noise that left his mouth didn’t sound human. At the back of his throat a sickening hue of smoke and ash gave him the after burn he didn’t want to think too hard about. His finger traced the mark absently; the mark of a killer, a knight of Hell, a damned man. He hates that he’s jonesing for it. A not-so-quiet desperation building higher... It’s becoming unbearable to remember that there has to be an end game. That once again, the job falls into his trembling, shaky hands and a humourless laugh trickles through his lips. If Cas, a multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent, can get fucked over by Dean, life, hell even God himself, he can pull himself back...

He can feel the draw though; the mark is pulling him back. Pulling him back –

No!

Instead of giving into the bloodlust shrieking in his head, he picks the phone from the nightstand. He forgets Sam’s number... The voice of reason, the anchor of trust, the only person (aside from Cas) who had ever got through his thick skull, and dials Crowley.

It still makes his skin crawl. Trust the King of Hell to find a backdoor into their corporeal realm. Also, thank Winchester luck that Cas was away on Heaven’s business. He’d come down less, no longer wanting to wallow in the wretched mud pit he was sinking in. Figures, since he saw the mark on his arm, he could never forget the venom in Cas’ eyes, the disappointment in his voice.

_Damn it Dean._

How appropriate, considering that that is literally what he is... Damned. Hopeless. Weak.

“Squirrel?” Screw British accents too, why are all the villains British anyway? He tries not to list all the references now: Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, Mark Strong.

“You got it Crowley, set it up.”

He doesn’t wait for more sass from the asshat. It’s dark out; his perception of time went with his concern for his wellbeing. The shadows on the walls never seem to sleep anyway.

The prophets have stopped preaching. God gave up on him years ago. Not that he blames him or Cas, he wouldn’t have faith in him either.

His fingers wrap around the wheel of the Impala until they are white and his hands physically ache. He’s been sat outside the warehouse for 10 minutes. Suddenly, Crowley is in the seat next to him, silently offering the first blade. They forgo pleasantries. It's a means to an end.  _He's_ a means to an end.

Now he’s nervous.

No matter what Sam had thought, this feeling, the burn of when the mark meets its counterpart, it _hurts_. It hurts to feel complete for the first time in his life. Like all the pieces of the puzzle finally fit and before he can register his feet moving or Crowley leaving, he’s standing in front of Abaddon, mark pulsing with new found vigour, hands shaking; her eyes flick black.

He doesn’t know what happened first. The hot poker connected with his chest, not in a fatal blow. Singing skin made him drop the blade. And then he was pushed back.

Somehow, in the chaos of her black smoke filtering into his body, clogging his senses and choking him to the very back of his mind, the beat of the mark still beats louder. It’s dark, back here; he can still see what she can. She says something, it sounds like his voice but it comes out wrong. It was probably undetectable to the residents of this city, however, he can feel it. Her, _his_ , voice is cold and clipped. The laugh rips through him.

That’s when he sees what she’s laughing at. He registers the words she had said.

“Let’s have some fun shall we, pretty boy.”

At first he can imagine all the things she could do, the people she can kill, though she doesn’t do any of them. No her surprise, hidden up his sleeve, as she bends down to pick up the first blade that had been discarded, the beat is deafening, frantic almost, slicing shallowly on his vessel.

She chants something, drawing a circle of blood on the floor.

When someone appears inside the circle he claws at his mind and screams, fraught, but swallowed by the constant thrum of the blade. She’s siphoning it, all of pent up emotions. He feels his lip twitch as she smirks wickedly.

“Hello Castiel.”

There it is. It’s his voice, but it’s her tone and he cringes, still trying to fight her for possession of his skin. He’s just so damn tired.

“Abaddon.” It’s not a question. Cas is all mojoed up; he can see the fake face behind his skin. Dumb son of a bitch couldn’t see beneath his skin when he first pulled him out of Hell though. Or for the million times Cas had his back and he treated him like shit. The mark responds, it’s as though the resentment for himself amuses the beat and Abaddon laughs. She can hear his thoughts too; he would kick himself if he had control. She does it for him.

“Ooh, your working up a storm in there, Dean.”

“Get out of him.” Cas practically growls. The same voice that once became the light inside his dark, somewhere along the line became the voice to break his heart. Abaddon knows it, everyone knows it, Dean just never had the guts to say it.

“As I said before, we’re going to have a little fun first.”

He could strangle himself for putting Cas through something else like this. Every time he tries to help him, he gives him another reason why he should just let him rot. It is the least he deserves. The crunch of his knuckles against Cas’ vessel makes his scrape at the wall again. He’s begging her, pleading her, to take him and let Cas go.

It continues for what could be hours. At an indefinable point, he loses track of time and it's just the grunt and crack and slap of him beating Cas. He could go rounds with Alastair longer than this. This hurts, so much more. His vessel is crying - very manly Winchester - he knows that for certain. Cas is staring up at him, face a bloody pulp, trench coat torn and soaked in red patches. He screams.

“Dean. Dean please...”

She (he) punctuates Cas’ plea with another blow to his face. Instantly, his head snaps back up. His eyes never lose their intensity.

“Dean, I know you can hear me. I-“

He hits him again. Dean screams. The mark is whispering a suggestion now, to do it. Cut the pretty little angel. Slice his fluffy wings.

Dean cries, no, please, no.

Abaddon takes the first blade from the back of his jeans where she’d stashed it and drags the jagged edge along Cas’ strong jaw line. He stares on, intent, unwavering, angelic defiance. The same defiance that took on Heaven, went up in flames, went pop twice, took on mental illness, ingested thousands of souls. Dean shivers.

He’s fuming.

She laughs, his laugh, coming out crackly and cruel. Dean braces his hands at the wall that’s blocking him out as she raises the first blade.

“Dean... I need you too.”

With everything he's got, every memory, every touch, all the words that had gone unspoken between them, Dean pushes.

The black sinks to the back of his consciousness. There’s only the beat of the mark in his veins and his arm raised in the air.

“I’m so sorry Cas, I love you.”

Plunging the jaw into his stomach, he feels Abaddon scrabbling, a tornado trapped inside his mind, trying to break out. He staggers back. Cas doesn’t say anything as he slumps own to the ground. Dean holds the blade there, afraid that if he removes it Abaddon might slither out with the blood pooling there, staining the bone in his own blood. Eyes drooping he tries to smile at the bright blue eyes gazing at him.

“It’s ok Sammy, it’s ok Cas, I’m sorry...”

Sam died completing the trials. He left Cas in Purgatory. There never was a backdoor in Hell; Crowley, Abaddon, Alastair, they're waiting for him. 

Dean's the broken boy no one should have played with.

 

The police arrive on the scene.

As the body bag is zipped up, the coroner raises his glasses at the detective.

“Suicide.”  


End file.
